


like a shooting star

by theswangirl



Series: forever and a lifetime 'verse [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M, daddy!charming is my fave
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-01-25 17:21:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1656380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theswangirl/pseuds/theswangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(..."and a voice keeps saying, this is where I'm meant to be...") Little snippets/oneshots in the 'forever and a lifetime' universe. some will make sense as the main story is updated, others will just be things I want to write.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. dinner with the charmings

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from 'Go the Distance' from Hercules - seriously a song in an OuaT Disney mix, right? Right.

''God, this is _seriously good._ ''

Snow laughs, biting into a slice of garlic bread and watching her teenaged daughter put away her second plate of pasta, showing no signs of discomfort – or slowing down – whatsoever. Snow could vaguely remember a time when she herself could eat the richest, heaviest things with gusto and retain slenderness with little effort, a long time ago. But that was the one saving grace of being a teenager, she supposed – you could eat nonstop but at the end of the day, you'd still be hungry. Emma was small, and it wasn't entirely down to good genes or her age, however nice a thought that would be. Her daughter's past was dark, darker than the past of any sixteen year old girl had the right to be, and Snow barely knew anything of it.

''I'm glad,'' Snow replied, finishing the bread. ''You're going to be fighting your father for the leftovers tomorrow.''

From her right, Charming groaned. ''It  _was_ delicious, Snow. I'm never eating again, though, I don't know if I can even  _move_ .''

Snow snorted. ''Until you remember about the ice cream in the freezer in three hours.''

Emma looked up. ''There's still ice cream?''

Shaking her head in mock exasperation, Snow smiled to herself, and began clearing empty dishes. Emma finished her last bite and stacked her salad bowl onto the plate, standing and stretching, putting a hand over her stomach. ''Thanks for dinner,'' she said as she lifted her plate, heading towards the kitchen, ''and for reminding me about the ice cream.''

''Don't eat it too late,'' Snow called to her retreating back, ''you won't sleep. And help me with dishes, please?''

''Yes,  _mom_ ,'' was Emma's sassy reply, though not without genuine affection. The sounds of clattering dishes echoed from the kitchen, though Snow hadn't moved to follow her daughter, standing frozen at the edge of the table with a spoon in her hand.

This made the third time she had called either of them by their titles – and the only time that it hadn't been while they were in peril.

Charming was gazing up at her. Snow sat the spoon back into the bowl and sighed, beginning to move again. Warmth filled her chest and a smile tugged at her lips, and she shared a look with her husband – he was the only other person who could truly understand the significance of Emma's chosen names for them at any given time, and as he reached out to squeeze her hand, she felt the tendrils of hope that always seemed to spring forth whenever these sorts of moments were shared with the three of them.

''Hey, are you guys doing that silent gaze thingy again?''

Emma was standing in the doorway, towel in hand, eyebrow raised. Snow blinked a few times, smiling up at her daughter as Charming kissed her hand and dropped it to the table, standing up.

''First one who finishes the dishes gets the half baked!'' he said, and no other words would have Emma hustling as fast as she was before the sentence was even finished.

Snow snickered, and shook her head as Charming made to take over the task of filling Tupperware. ''Go help Emma,'' was all she said, before smirking. ''I know I'll be comforting one of you later tonight. God help anyone who withholds Ben and Jerry's from you two, honestly...''

 


	2. My First Kiss (went a little like this)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was a testament to how strange life was that Emma was even in the middle of this scenario in the first place.
> 
> (or, Emma and Hook make out, invoking the wrath of the parents Charming.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just fluffy (albeit a little crackish) fun, because I wanted to write overprotective!Charmings and throw Hook in there as well.

''I'll kill him.''

''Charming, be reasonable.''

It was a testament to how strange life was that Emma was even in the middle of this scenario in the first place. She never thought she'd have to worry about talking her overprotective parents down from the edge, but there you had it – weird.

She hadn't even brought home a boyfriend, for god's sake –  _how_ her parents had found out about the brief makeout session she'd had with Hook just outside the  _Jolly_ was anyone's guess, but Emma hadn't exactly been able to deny her father completely when he'd burst into Granny's rambling furiously about how he'd just heard from a source (whatever  _that_ meant) that the princess and the pirate were sleeping together.

''Oh my  _god_ no!'' Had been Emma's first response, after choking on her coke for a good minute or so – rumors spread like freakin' wildfire in Storybrooke, it was really quite ridiculous, almost as bad as any school Emma had been in. Yet she'd been unable to lie and say that she  _hadn't_ been with Hook last night, although she certainly hadn't been  _sleeping with him_ . A heated kiss on the docks, and that's all it had been.

Granted, a couple of centuries  _was_ quite an age gap, so Emma could understand where her parents' outrage as coming from, but really, he  _looked_ young, and so Emma was going to push for age being just a number in this case. A good ten odd years in physical age wasn't  _too_ bad, was it? Emma didn't even know. She was the daughter of fairy tale characters for crying out loud,  _age gaps_ in a nonexistent relationship was the most normal thing she'd encountered thus far.

''Guys, you  _need_ to calm down.''

They were pissed. Whether it was at her or at the pirate – probably both, hopefully more at him – Emma wasn't entirely sure. But her mother looked very much ready to shoulder her crossbow and embark on a Hook themed manhunt, whilst her father's dead serious threats against Hook's life and limb were rapidly escalating.

''It was just a kiss,'' Emma said, trying for her most placating tone, ''we weren't even on the ship.''

''That's not what Sleepy says - ''

''Sleepy was probably just that. We  _weren't_ on the ship, Dad. I swear.'' Never let it be said that Emma Swan was afraid of breaking out the big guns in any situation. The 'D' word was becoming more frequently used but it had never yet failed to bring a surprised, but completely paternal tenderness to her father's face. It had the same effect now, though to a lesser extent. David stopped muttered (finally, thank  _god,_ it was starting to actually creep her out) and sighed, placing his face into his hands.

''Emma...you don't think he's a little...old, for you?''

Mary Margaret appeared to have gotten a hold on her inner mama bear, at least enough to utter the reasonable sounding, tentative question.

''Um...'' Emma took a sip of her coke.  _Age is just a number._ ''Maybe if this were the real world,'' she conceded, propping her elbow on the table, ''but we're in Storybrooke. You guys are from the Enchanted Forest. Can you  _please_ give me  _some_ leeway here?''

Any rebuttal from either parent was postponed as the bell above the diner's door jingled, and Emma glanced away from her parents' equally fierce expressions for the barest moment, taking another sip of her coke, and nearly choking on it again as she did a double take, realizing just  _who_ had walked in.

''Swan,'' Hook greeted, smirk firmly in place, approaching their table with apparently no concept of just how screwed he was, ''lovely day we're having, isn't it?''

He was an idiot. An idiot with no sense of timing.

'' _Hook,_ '' David ground out, making it sound like an expletive, ''you - ''

''Hook,'' Emma said, talking loudly over him as she slid from the booth,''if I were you, I'd make a run for it.''

A unified ''Don't you  _dare_ !'' came out of her parent's mouths, and Emma winced. But one look at Prince Charming and Snow White's faces was all Hook needed, apparently, for he turned neatly and hustled back out the way he'd come, nearly tripping over poor Dr. Hopper in his haste.

Before Emma could even blink, Mary Margaret was after him, David on her heels, both of them beginning to yell after Hook incomprehensibly as soon as they were out of the diner.

Everyone was staring at her. Emma rolled her eyes.

Luckily for her, Leroy came crashing through the diner door moments later, panting, and all eyes shifted to him. ''The Prince is chasing Hook down Main Street  _with a_ _sword!''_ he hollered, ''and Snow White has a crossbow!''

With that, the diner emptied, save for three: the bemused looking Granny, gleeful Ruby, and horrified Emma.

''I'd get out there as fast as you can,'' Ruby advised her, throwing a rag down onto the counter. ''Snow can hit  _anything_ if she tries.''

''Even if it's moving?''

''Especially.''

''Damn it.''

The much abused bell jingled again as Emma crashed out of the diner and promptly began running in the direction of the show.

 


	3. Under the weater (part I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma's sick for the first time since the whole Storybrooke slash finding her birth parents thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fits into 'forever and a lifetime' universe as usual - this is set after the end of that story (which has not yet been written or published) so don't be too confused.

Not for the first time that evening, Emma was seriously re-thinking her decision to hang out with Neal. She loved him, she really did – he hadn't pushed her about a  _dating_ relationship in over a month, and seemed content to stay as her friend, at least until she could sort out exactly what it was she wanted from everyone around her.

Be that as it may, a lack of sleep the previous night and a growing stuffy sensation in her nose weren't helping her mood at all. In fact, Emma thought darkly, she could probably ditch and he wouldn't even notice for another hour. Neal got into the Rabbit Hole because he was twenty one, Emma because she was the  _princess_ and no one dared say a word about how she was technically a minor lest the wrath of Prince Charming came down on their heads for letting his little girl into a dive bar. The difference between Neal and Emma was that while she got  _into_ the bar, she really wasn't going to get a beer or a shot or anything close to that – the bartenders may have been willing to turn a blind eye to her age, but they weren't stupid. And so she was stuck sipping her coke at the bar, watching Neal hustle pool over in the corner, laughing and taking sips from his pint every few moments. 

The song on the jukebox changed over, and Emma finished the last of her drink. It was almost eleven thirty. While she didn't have a  _curfew_ , per say, it was a somewhat unspoken yet mutually agreed guideline that she would be home by midnight, a little after at the latest. There were few things to do in Storybrooke after hours anyway, and so there had not yet been a problem with this arrangement. Leaving her glass on the counter, Emma slid down from her stool, groaning as her legs ached – god, muscle aches, headache, stuffiness, she was just  _waiting_ for the fever to hit – and walking over to where Neal was charming his way into yet another game, looking smug and tucking a wad of bills into his pocket.

''Hey,'' she called out, poking his arm when she got close enough, ''I'm out. You winning?''

''Yeah,'' he said, flashing her a grin, before frowning slightly. ''You're out? It's not even midnight, Em. Wanna do a game? One on one?''

''Thanks, Neal, but I'm tired. Really tired. I'm gonna go to bed before I fall asleep at the bar or something.''

''I'd like to see the Prince come and deal with  _that,''_ Neal sniggered, smirk widening as she mock-glared at him. ''Alright, you want a ride?''

''It's cool, I can walk.''

''You sure? I think it's raining out or something.''

''I'm good, Neal. Good luck,'' she nodded at the table, and the men on the other side who were looking increasingly irritated at Neal's repeating wins. ''See you tomorrow.''

''Be safe, Em.''

Neal was right: it was raining. Drizzling, really, but still chilly as hell and dampening Emma's jacket more than she would have liked.

Ugh, her head was going to kill her if she didn't get to lay down soon. Maybe there was a chance both David and Mary Margaret had already gone to bed – she could slip quietly into her own room, throw on some sweats, and sleep for twelve hours. If they weren't, she was going to have to play it cool: Mary Margaret, at least, tended to take Emma at face value, so if Emma said she was  _fine_ despite her increasing dizziness and pounding head, she'd probably believe her. David was good at that too, however he was harder to fool. Emma had the theory that it was because he was the one she'd known well first, before the curse had been broken, and thus there was no getting away from the fact that he simply knew more of her personality than Mary Margaret did.

The rain was coming down harder now, but the apartment was in sight. Emma ducked underneath the eaves once she reached it, and sighed in relief when the building door was unlocked – the other four occupants of the building sometimes locked it at night, and  _that_ was exactly what she didn't need right now.

Taking the stairs as quickly yet quietly as she could, Emma reached her own door and gently turned the knob, wincing as it squeaked a little, and sliding into the apartment.

There was a light on in the kitchen. Of course, Emma thought ruefully, letting the door click shut behind her, there was no way they'd go to bed without her being home or accounted for: too much shit happened to them on a regular basis for Emma to just be any semblance of 'normal teenager'.

However, when she tiptoed reluctantly into the lit kitchen, no one was there.

Well, maybe they'd just left the light on for her.

Feeling a sense of relief wash over her – all she wanted to do right now was collapse into bed – Emma turned and quietly flicked off the light, sidling up the stairs to her bedroom, where she slid off her boots and sweater, wincing as chills washed over her, and almost quite literally fell into bed, curling herself into a ball underneath her duvet, and dropping off to unconsciousness instantly.

 

* * *

 

 

The first thing Emma registered upon waking was how uncomfortably  _damp_ she was. Opening her eyes, which met nothing but the near darkness of the room, illuminated only by the barest glow of a streetlamp outside, she hesitantly reached a hand up to her face, which came away wet. Her clothes had been damp from the rain before she'd ever fallen asleep, and her cold sweat hadn't helped things at all.

Oh, and her bra was digging uncomfortably into her chest. Like,  _really_ uncomfortably.

Groaning as she forced herself to sit up, and closed her eyes against the spin of dizziness, Emma reached down to pull off her socks. It took her a good few minutes to peel off the rest of her clothing as she was slowed both by bouts of dizziness and the chills that made her hands shake too much to steadily grip any of her zippers.

Finally, though, she had stripped down to underwear. God, it was cold in here – had anyone turned the heat on last night? The digital clock on her nightstand read 6:18AM – far too early to be awake. Or too late, depending on how you looked at it. It was around this time that the bakery would open, though the thought of freshly made donuts and croissants didn't make Emma's stomach growl as it almost always would normally. The idea of consuming  _anything_ was horrendous. In fact, the idea of doing anything other than laying back down sounded like pure hell, but she was clammy and cold and probably smelled like sweat, and the rational part of Emma's brain (the one that mostly sounded like her mother) reasoned that a bath would at least help her sleep a little better. Some ibuprofen wouldn't go amiss either.

The latter of those things was downstairs, and she was going to have to brave the cold walk and the chance of meeting either or both of her parents in the process. It was usually Mary Margaret who was awake this early, having spent so long as a schoolteacher and having taken up the position again just weeks previously. It was also a Thursday, if Emma was remembering correctly, so chances were that if her mother wasn't already awake, she would be soon.

The last thing she wanted to do was explain her likely awful appearance, and how it was pretty much a hundred percent her own fault for walking home in the cold rain at midnight – Mary Margaret would fuss, and so would David, for that matter. The thought filled Emma with both warmth and trepidation, as it always did. Shaking her head against it, she stood, holding onto the bedpost for support as her legs wobbled a little beneath her. There was a robe hanging on her own bathroom door, and Emma wrapped it around herself as she reached the door, flicking on the light and maneuvering to the small bathtub that she plugged up, and began to fill with hot water. Bubbles, Emma decided in her semi-delirious state, would be good, and so she grabbed the lavender soap sitting on the floor by the tub and squirted a few globs under the running water.

If either of her parents heard the bath running, they didn't come to investigate, for all was still quiet as Emma switched the taps off a few minutes later and stripped herself of her underwear and robe, sliding into the hot water with relief as the chills she'd been feeling for the last ten minutes finally abated.

God, she  _hated_ being sick. She'd always hated it. There had been a few times when her foster parents had cared for her during illness – brought her tea, left vicks on her desk, checked up on her, but mostly it was just Emma, nursing herself back to health as she skipped four days of school and spent them holed up in her room, coughing and burning through a fever alone. It had been lonely, and Emma could recall feeling as crappy as she'd ever felt in those moments. 

Though she was alone now, in the bathroom, it felt somehow less isolating than taking care of herself ever had in the past.

A soft rap at the door broke her thoughts and Emma jumped, sliding further down into the bath, up to her neck. ''Emma? Can I open the door?''

It was her mother.

''Sure,'' Emma called softly back, closing her eyes and wafting bubbles up to cover herself as the door clicked open and Mary Margaret entered. She was fully dressed, unsurprisingly, and looked almost ready to walk into work.

''What's got you up so early?''

Letting her feet creep up to rest against the side of the tub, Emma suppressed a cough and shrugged as she replied, ''just woke up. Couldn’t get back to sleep, figured a bath might relax me.''

Emma wasn't a bad liar by any means, but she must have really looked terrible, for she could tell that no matter what she said, Mary Margaret wasn't going to buy it, judging by her carefully arched eyebrow of skepticism, and the way her eyes were darting over Emma's face. ''You look pretty flushed,'' she informed her gently, stepping forward to press a hand to Emma's forehead. ''Sweaty, and you feel hot – how do  _you_ feel, Emma?''

There was a part of Emma that was considering BS'ing her way out of the situation – saying something that would make her mother leave, however skeptical of Emma's well being, and leaving her to her cooling bath and trembling limbs. But that wasn't how the world worked, not with Snow White in it, and if she was entirely truthful – more likely than ever in her off kilter, feverish state – Emma didn't want her to go.

Mary Margaret fixed her with a stern look – one that had been perfected by a combination of so many years dealing with children, and the simple fact that she was  _Snow White_ , the most stubborn person Emma knew, other than perhaps her father.

''Emma, do you have a fever?''

Emma nodded.

''Are you sick?''

''Yes.''

''I'm going to bring you some tea,'' Mary Margaret decided after a moment's silent contemplation. ''I've got to leave in - '' she checked her watch and winced- ''-about ten minutes. But Charming's still home, I don't think he goes into the station until eleven. Oh, Emma,'' she sighed, reaching down to run her hand over the top of Emma's head, ''how long have you been feeling badly?''

''Last night,'' Emma said with a small groan as the water grew even cooler around her already shivering body. ''Walked home in the rain. Kind of stupid.''

''Hm. Well, you'll feel better soon. Just rest today, okay? I'm bringing you tea and something for your fever. Oh! I'll get you some pajamas, too.''

Just as she was turning and about to walk through the door again, Emma murmured out a small, ''Thanks, mom,'' that made her stop in her tracks briefly. Turning her head back around to face Emma, she offered her a reassuring smile.

''Of course, Emma.''

 

* * *

 

 

''Charming, Emma has a fever.''

The first five words his wife had spoken to him yet that day sent Charming's head into a brief tailspin, which wasn't helped by the fact that he was barely awake as it was, the coffee he'd just poured not even having touched his lips.

''She's  _what?''_

Snow was bustling around the kitchen, heating the kettle, grabbing one of the mugs from their hangers below the cupboards, and putting a splash of milk in, followed by a bag of Emma's preferred chai tea.

''Running a fever – she was in the bath at six this morning, can you believe it? I knew she'd never be up that early voluntarily – you should understand that, Charming,'' she eyed him with a smirk, and Charming rolled his eyes affectionately. ''Anyway, she feels awful, I can tell. She should be out of the bath now, I left her some pajamas and told her I'd get her some tea.'' Sighing and drumming her fingers against the counter, Snow met his gaze with an anxious stare of her own. ''We've never done anything like this before.''

Shaking his head slowly, Charming took a gulp of hot coffee. ''No. We haven't.''

''This is...''

''Strange?''

''I was going to say terrifying.''

Huffing a soft chuckle, Charming nodded behind Snow's shoulder at the heavily steaming kettle. ''Yeah. She'll make it. She always does.''

 

 


	4. Under the weather (part II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> David takes care of feverish, sick Emma.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished OUAT season 3 because season 4 came on netflix, and I always forget how much I love this stupid show. One more part coming for this 'under the weather' segment, and it will probably be from Emma's POV again because I kind of hate writing Mary Margaret.

David was, once again, left alone with his coffee and cereal in the kitchen after Snow bustled back upstairs, a carefully balanced steaming mug of tea in one hand, and a plate of dry toast in the other. As he took a sip from his own mug, it occurred to him that for the first time in a while, he was going to be left alone with his daughter.

His memories of being just David Nolan, the ordinary man with an ordinary life, were strange and dreamlike, but he remembered meeting Emma Swan and he remembered being the first one to take care of her – Snow fell into motherhood without missing a beat, like she had known Emma her entire life, but David had never been able to quell the small, proud feeling deep within that stemmed from Emma being  _his_ little girl, first. Before Snow, before the curse was broken, before the truth had come out, she'd gravitated to him and him to her, however unconsciously, and that was enough to silence the nervousness bubbling in the pit of his stomach at the idea of being alone with her for the first time since the curse had been broken.

Footsteps on the stairs announced his wife's arrival. ''She's still in the bath,'' Snow reported, taking her coat from the rack and pulling it on, ''she's very pale, David. I'm worried.''

She was biting her lip, fiddling with the strap of her bag and glancing nervously back at the stairs. David shook his head.

''Don't worry. I'll take care of her.''

''I know you will,'' she answered quickly, stepping forward to meet him halfway from where he'd stood from the bar stool, resting her forehead against his chest and sighing deeply. ''She's seen so much  _garbage,_ she's been hurt so much – I just want her to feel  _safe,_ and healthy, and happy, not...''

''It's just a cold, honey. And she's here with us, safe and sound. She won't suffer alone.''

Over the course of their three months and counting stint in parenting, they'd heard enough horror stories of Emma's life to last an entire lifetime – more hurt, loneliness, and suffering than anyone, let alone a child, should have to endure. Emma didn't always open up easily, her green eyes still narrowing and face closing down sometimes if a memory hit her or something poked a nerve, and the fact that she'd been through enough to even develop such a coping mechanism made David – hell, he knew it made Snow, too – want to punch a wall in helpless frustration.

''Go to work,'' he advised, bringing a hand up to card through Snow's hair. ''She'll be  _fine –_ she can sleep on the couch all day and watch the old movie channel. She'll be happy as a clam.''

Snow shook her head, although a smile played at her lips as she straightened from their embrace. ''And you'll be right there next to her – make sure she drinks plenty of tea, that's always good - ''

''Snow,'' he cut her off, pressing a kiss to her forehead. ''We'll be  _fine._ I can handle Emma. I'll even make sure she eats fruit.''

''No Oreos,'' Snow said as she pulled her beanie on, ''or Doritos. I swear, it's a wonder that neither of your arteries are clogged to death - ''

''Have a good day at work, darling.''

Snow narrowed her eyes at him. ''There's kale in the drawer on the right.''

David barely managed to repress a small shudder. ''I know. I love you.''

''I love you too.'' She darted forward to press a quick kiss to his lips before steeling her shoulders and closing the front door behind herself, leaving the apartment in silence.

Kale. Mary Margaret the school teacher was a fan of green smoothies; something that hadn't changed when Snow White had come through. He knew Emma liked them too, sometimes, though not as much as she favored milkshakes, or, as Snow had pointed out, Oreos.

There were virtually no dishes, everything having been washed the evening previously, and the thirty seconds it took David to rinse his mug and bowl and situate them in the dishwasher did nothing to kill time. Silence reigned again once he'd finished, the early morning light filtering through the windows and the quiet hum of the building's heat running in the background. Upstairs there was a soft thump followed by the sound of water trickling down through the pipes from the bath draining. The thing about the apartment was that privacy wasn't always a  _thing_ when you could hear every little movement at any given time – it was worse upstairs; if Emma so much as stepped out of her bed it sounded thunderous, and she'd informed them (slyly, weeks after moving in) that she could generally hear any conversation that took place anywhere downstairs, much to he and Snow's mild chagrin.

He waited, walking slowly around the open floor, straightening the blankets on the couch and the fruit Snow had arranged in a basket on the table. When he heard the bathroom door shut, and footsteps padding a little hesitantly above him, he bit the bullet.

His own footsteps on the stairs were heavy, deliberately so, to give her a decent moment's warning that he was coming up. ''Emma?'' he called out, once reaching the door, rapping on it softly.

''Ugngh,'' was the eloquent, slightly muffled response from within.

''I'm going to take that as an invitation to open the door.'' When no further response came, he twisted the knob, gently pushing the door open and feeling a wave of hot air wash over him. She must have flicked all of the heating vents wide open; it was like a sauna.

He wouldn't think it to look at her, however. Emma's blond hair was dark from water and hanging limply across her shoulders. She'd piled on at least three blankets in addition to her favorite fluffy robe and was sitting at the center of the bed, a few pillows pushed behind herself, face a little gray and teeth chattering.

''Oh, Emma,'' he found himself sighing, stepping closer to the bed.

''Don't tell me – I look terrible.'' Her voice was scratchy and stuttering, but she flicked her gaze to him and he could tell she was trying to muster a smile.

''Hey, you said it,'' he teased back, coming to sit on the edge of the bed. ''You've got to get your hair dry or you're going to freeze to death.''

''Couldn't find a towel,'' was all she said, burrowing even deeper into her blanket cocoon.

She looked like a child – a little girl peering up at him with her slightly bloodshot green eyes and stray bits of drying blond hair, her body under the mound of covers jerking as she shivered violently.

''Can you sit up?''

Never let it be said that Emma Swan didn't have the tenacity of both her parents times a hundred. Clenching her jaw against the shudders, he watched her eyes steel and her arms come from the blankets to push up beneath herself, swaying slightly as she came to sit fully so that she was facing him.

''The heat's still on, right?''

He nodded. ''I know you're cold, sweetheart, but you're gonna overheat with all those blankets.''

She looked dejected. ''It won't go away. Not even in the bath.''

''I know,'' he reassured, I need to take your temperature, okay? And I want you to drink some water. In fact, I think your mother has some Tylenol downstairs...''

He stood. Emma reached out a hand to grab his arm before he could walk away. ''I want to stay on the couch.''

''You need to rest.''

''I can rest on the couch! We can watch TV. Please?''

Even through her fever bright eyes she  _knew_ she was weakening his resolve. He could see that telltale twinkle as she gazed up at him, and he grinned in defeat.

_''She has you wrapped around her little finger,''_ Snow had accused him many times over the past few months – with absolutely no small amount of glee – and he knew that Emma knew it.

''Alright, you win,'' he said. ''Do I need to carry you, too?''

''Hey, you said it,'' she threw back at him, shuffling around as she carefully extracted herself from her blankets.

''The floor is freezing,'' she added as soon as her bare feet touched it.

''Well, you better walk fast, princess.''

It was a testament to how sick she was that she didn't put up her cursory bluster at the nickname.

''Temperature, water, Tylenol, and  _then_ you're not moving from that couch.''

''Yes, dad.''

Downstairs, Emma followed him obediently as he dug through the bathroom for the medicine, filled a glass of water, and watched carefully as she drank the whole thing. ''It hurts my throat,'' she said reproachfully.

''And it'll make you better faster,'' he countered.

One half of the couch folded out into a double bed, and David made quick work of snapping it into place, piling the pillows onto it and dotingly layering a few of the blankets over Emma once she'd flopped onto it.

''I'm not a baby,'' she fussed after he began to tuck the blankets beneath her feet.

''But you're  _my_ baby,'' he said, chuckling as she spluttered a little on the sip of water she'd just taken. ''Just sit back, Emma. Try to sleep.''

''I've been sleeping all night.''

''You're pretty contrary for someone who  _isn't_ a baby...''

She scowled prettily at him, the expression melting from her face a brief moment later. ''Can you put on TCM? Please?''

''I don't know,  _can_ I?''

''Really? That old hat?'' She yawned largely, leaning her head to rest against the arm of the couch. ''Enough with the dad jokes, Dad.''

And so they spent most of the morning knee deep in Cary Grant movies – they caught the ending of  _To Catch a Thief,_ and blew through  _Philadelphia Story, North by Northwest,_ and  _His Girl Friday_ by one. Emma slept fitfully, and after the first time she coughed herself awake, panicking from the lack of breath and empty water glass, he settled himself on the couch next to her after phoning Graham and being assured he could hold down the fort for the day.

Snow called only once, which was far less than he expected.

''She's fine, she's sleeping,'' he reported, leaning against the doorway of the kitchen and watching as Emma snored gently from the couch.

_''You found the Tylenol?''_

_''_ And she took it. Twice.''

_''I'll be home for dinner – should I grab something from Granny's?''_

_''_ Mhm,'' he said, turning to open the fridge and shake his head at the contents. ''I can make pasta, pasta, and...pasta.''

_''Granny's it is,_ '' his wife said, amused.  _''The usual?''_

_''_ The usual,'' he confirmed. ''See you soon. I love you.''

_''I love you too.''_

It was nearing one thirty, and outside the rain pattered down relentlessly. It had begun at around nine, the cloud cover and fog thick over the town. David settled himself back down onto the couch, yawning and stretching his feet out to the coffee table. Snow would shove them off in an instant, but she wouldn't be here until five.

The rain, Emma's snores, and the drone of the television sent him nodding off, the heat switching on moments later and lulling him into a gentle slumber.

  
  



End file.
